The Adventure of the American Heiress
by violet lily13
Summary: London, 1895. A young woman comes to Holmes for help with her controlling aunt, who she believes is squandering away her inheiritance. Is there more to this case than meets the eye?
1. Two Shabby Figures

**The Adventure of the American Heiress **

_what if..._

"_Twenty years before, with Victoria on the throne, an alliance  
__such as Holmes and I forged - close, underchaperoned, and not even  
__rendered safe by the bonds of blood - would have been unthinkable_."  
Laurie R. King - The Beekeeper's Apprentice

_April 1895_

"Quiet, you stupid girl !" my aunt screeched, lashing out at me with her hand, unfortunately the one covered in gaudy rings.

I jumped back, barely missing the blow meant for my face. (Hadn't that diamond been my mother's?) Never had my horrible aunt's temper reached such an extent.

"Go away," she continued, her voice still dangerously high-pitched. "I don't want to see your miserable face for a long while. How dare you contest me!"

Although I was not afraid of what she would do if I remained, I left her sight with all the speed I could muster.

Alone in my cramped room, I decided that this was the last straw. My aunt's treatment of me for the last five months since I had arrived in England after my parents' deaths was below that of a slave. She acted as though I were an insect to be squished or a bacteria to be eradicated. Tomorrow I would go to London and see someone who could put a stop to my aunt's brutality. Hopefully, this person would also get rid of her as well.

After grabbing some stale biscuits for breakfast, I left my farmhouse in Sussex (indeed it was mine, my aunt merely lived with me) early in the morning, so that no one would see me and tell my aunt, who would no doubt try to stop me from going to London. With my entire allowance for the month, I barely had enough money to buy a ticket to Victoria Station and for another ticket to ride the Underground to my destination. When I emerged from the tunnels beneath the sprawling city, I saw the populace hurrying around either looking for shelter or using umbrellas.

Just my luck. I had to come to London on a day with pouring rain. Without, I must add, an umbrella.

Knowing that I was not far from my destination, I set off down the street, walking as fast as I could in my too-small shoes (the main reason of the argument with my aunt the night before; my feet, and the rest of my body, were growing at an alarming rate) . No one noticed me, as they all had their heads beneath hats or umbrellas, and nearly all were looking down at their feet. These city dwellers seemed to live in their own little worlds.

Every so often, I would glance up at the house numbers until I found the building I wanted. It was a fairly conventional white London house, not unlike the others around it. Even through its blatant normality, I could feel strange currents arising from the very walls of the building. Suddenly, I was filled with anxiety and had to force myself to ring the bell.

Scarcely a moment later, the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with greying hair who was wearing a demure black dress, reminding me of Queen Victoria, except this woman had a far kinder demeanor. She took one look at me and threw open the door, ushering me into the warm, dry house.

"Come in, child," she exclaimed, surprise in her slightly accented voice (I believed at the time that it could be from any of the northern counties, but found later that it was, in fact, Scotland). "You'll catch your death standing out in the street like that."

So I ended up in a perfectly clean hallway, dripping gallons of water onto the highly-polished floor. On one side of the hall, there was a passage to the rest of the house, from which I could smell fresh cooking. Beside this passage was a staircase to the upper floors.

"You'll be here to see Mr. Holmes, I suppose," she said, taking my hat and placing it on the hall rack to dry. "I show you up to where he receives visitors."

"Yes, I am," I managed to stammer as she led me up a set of stairs.

At the top, she opened a door to reveal a comfortable and very masculine sitting room, cluttered with artefacts of dubious and mysterious origin.

"I'm sorry to tell you that he isn't in right now, miss," continued the woman, whom I deduced to be the long-suffering Mrs. Hudson. "He left early this morning and hasn't yet returned, but I believe he should be back soon." She looked at my thin frame with an emotion bordering on pity. "Would you like some tea? I made some scones not an hour ago."

My stomach rumbled a reply before I had the chance. Tea by itself was nice, but scones along with it were a delight. "Indeed I would, madam," I replied. " It's kind of you to offer."

She nodded, her glance roaming to the pile of newspapers beside one of the chairs.

"A strange one, that Mr. Holmes is," she muttered, sounding as though it were an old argument with her better judgement as to why she had taken such an abnormal boarder. Then she turned back at me with a smile. "Hopefully, he'll be able to help you in some way, miss. I'll be right back with the tea."

She exited the room, leaving me a few moments to explore the lodgings of the great consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I had, of course, read all the stories published to date; even though it meant "borrowing" them from the housekeeper's grandson because my aunt wouldn't let me read such "un lady-like pieces of rot which couldn't even be called literature". But his Baker Street rooms showed far more than all of the stories put together ever could.

Everything in that room - from the Persian slipper hanging from the mantlepiece to the partially-hidden photograph of a bejewelled woman, presumably the infamous Irene Adler - revealed a man of focussed intellect and fierce passions who would go great lengths to get whatever he wanted. From what I saw in his sitting room within that short period of time, Sherlock Holmes was not a man to be crossed. Had he chosen to become a master thief, I daresay he could have stolen the necklace off the queen herself without anyone noticing. Had he become an actor, his greatest roles would have included Iago, Richard III, and Hamlet.

I stood by the mantlepiece, trying to make out the painting hanging on the wall above. It seemed to be a waterfall in a mountainous area. Perhaps it was that waterfall in Switzerland that the newspapers wrote of four years before - the place where Mr. Holmes supposedly had died, along with the villainous Professor Moriarty, by falling into an abyss.

Dr. Watson's stories were rather behind in that fact. I was extremely curious how he would treat Holmes' death when most everyone knew the man was alive and in London.

My reverie was interrupted by the rattling of tea things in the hall. Mrs. Hudson entered the room, humming to herself a cheerful tune.

"Here you are, miss," she said brightly. "The tea will warm you up right away."

I thanked her sincerely (after only stale biscuits and not much of a supper the night before, I was rather famished), having to force myself not to grab one of those heavenly-looking scones and gobble it down in seconds. While she poured me a cup of tea, I sat down in a well-worn chair beside the fireplace, which was heartily burning, in hope of drying off.

After straightening up some pillows on the sofa and flicking a feather duster at some of the bookshelves, she left with a smile at me as I bit into a scone. Alone once more with my thoughts, I looked around the room again. The violin (a Stradivarius, if I recalled properly) on the chair across from me was in pristine condition and obviously well cared for by its owner. A set of bookshelves behind the facing chair was filled with books of various types, from _Crimes of Passion in 18th century Italy _to_ The Thought of Goethe_.

Setting down my teacup, I stood and walked over to a desk by the window. It was messily covered in sheafs of paper, which were in turn covered with neat, precise, handwriting. From the look of it, Mr. Holmes was at work on a monograph of some significance. But my eyes were distracted from the papers by the slightly open drawer beneath them.

Curiosity overtaking propriety, I silently and carefully pulled open the drawer. The inside was as cluttered as the rest of the desk, but the item on top caught my attention right away. After realizing what it was, I quickly shut the drawer and hurried back to the chair by the fireplace, shivering slightly, although not from the damp.

I had always thought the "seven-percent solution" was merely something from the stories that didn't apply to the man in real life. Perhaps it was naive of me to think in such a way (I was only seventeen), but never in my life had I met anyone who willingly took narcotics in order to keep themselves from getting bored. I could understand using morphine, or opium even, for pain, but to use cocaine as a diversion from the monotony of real life?

The temptation to leave this place suddenly increased. How could I trust a drug addict - as he most surely was from the looks of that hypodermic needle in its case beside a half-full container of a clear liquid that could only be that infamous dilution of cocaine - to solve my problem?

I was just in the act of putting on my not-to-neatly-mended cotton gloves when the door to the sitting room opened and a man entered. He was very tall, easily two or three inches above six feet, but that was all I could properly ascertain because he was most unusually dressed. Instead of the neat city suit I had expected, this man wore the clothes of the lowest of labourers: filthy grey trousers, an equally filthy blue jacket, a cap that looked as though it had been run over a number of times by carriages, and around his neck was a red bandanna that looked more than partially moth-eaten.

Upon seeing me, the man stopped in his tracks. His eyes flashed intelligence for a moment, then became bland. "Sorry, miss," he apologized with the accents of a dock-worker. "Didn't know anyone t'were 'ere."

If it hadn't been for that momentary flash of intelligence, I'd have never known it was the great detective standing before me. With a shy smile, I stood and played the part of an innocent girl in order to see his reaction.

"Oh, sir," I exclaimed. "I'm so sorry to have upset you in such as way. Do you know where Mr. Holmes is? I came here to see him, but the nice housekeeper told me he wasn't in..." I let the sentence trail off. Perhaps now he would give himself away.

The man, whom I believed to be Mr. Holmes in disguise, blinked, showing no emotion. "Indeed, miss, I've come 'here lookin' for 'im meself." He turned to leave the room. "Looks like I'll 'ave to come back termorrer then."

Before his form completely vanished, I stepped forward, trying to suppress a grin. "Really, Mr. Holmes, you would abandon a young lady in your rooms to wait while you go off to who-knows-  
where? And there I was thinking that you were a gentleman."

With a start, he whipped around and stared at me, shock evident in his sharp-featured face. He seemed for the moment to be speechless, so I took advantage of his silence and continued.

"Your brilliant disguise cannot fool me, Mr. Holmes. You've probably used that same one hundreds of times, but how easily you dropped it the moment you came in that door. Perhaps in the future you should be more on your guard until you can be certain that no one will observe your strange actions."

By now, his mouth was open, making him look rather like a fish. "What did you say?"

I sighed, becoming bored with this conversation already. All I wanted was to tell him about my case, then run back home before my aunt noticed my absence.

"Your _eyes_, Mr. Holmes," I said with all the patience of a wet, tired, and still-hungry adolescent. "Before you spoke to me, they showed an intelligence that did not match the dock labourer disguise you're currently wearing. It did not take long to realize who you were, even if I've never seen you before other than in pictures, which can be misleading, from what I can see."

He looked at me, more closely this time, amusement in his grey eyes. Under such a gaze, I found myself blushing, mostly because I remembered how I must have appeared to him. Even before it had gotten soaked, my clothing was not of the best quality. The dress I wore had been let down three times, mended in a number of places, and was not very fashionable in colour or style. It was rather obvious that my shoes were too small and my complexion could not have been very pleasing to any eye, as it was freckled, tanned, and sickly all at once.

Never before in anyone's presence had I felt to self-conscious, yet in a single glance, this man have made me feel extremely out of place. It may have been merely his fame that made me feel that way, but perhaps it was his powers of deduction and observation that frightened me the most. If he could tell with one look that Dr. Watson had recently come from Afghanistan, then what would he see of me? Not even my aunt knew all the events surrounding my parents' death and I had vowed to tell no one of that horrible event. Nor would I unless in the direst of need.

"Is something the matter?" Mr. Holmes asked, his voice coming through my tormented thoughts. "You've gone quite pale. Should I fetch Mrs. Hudson for you, madam?"

I shook myself back into reality and looked into his worried face, which now bent over me. His eyes were a most peculiar shade of grey; they were not so much stone-like as stormy.

"No, no, I'm fine, really," I babbled incoherently. "It must be the weather."

"You _have _come a long way from Sussex to see me, have you not?"

Startled by this, I took a moment to reply. "Is it that obvious that I come from the country?"

"No, I merely saw the return ticket sticking out of your pocket."

At this, I could not help but laugh.

"And you, sir, have recently come from the St. Katherine docks in Wapping, if I do not mistake the smell of rotting fish and the stains of various Oriental spices on your jacket."

Now it was his turn to laugh, and he did so with much aplomb.

"Since you know who I am, madam, may I be so bold as to ask an introduction of yourself?"

I raised a sarcastic eyebrow at his use of overly formal language and gave up on understanding his reasons for using it with a mental shrug.

"I am Mary Russell," I said, offering my hand for a handshake.

He stared at my outstretched hand for a fraction of a second, then took it gently in his, raising it gallantly to his lips, which surprised me greatly. What did he think he was doing by kissing my hand? What about the cold, thinking machine I had been led to believe he was? I tried to pull back, but stopped myself, not wishing to be rude.

"A pleasure, Miss Russell," he said, his eyes dancing. "It is indeed a pleasure."


	2. Tales of Woe

Disclaimer: all characters belong to Laurie R. King and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Even the basic idea belongs to Ms. King and can be found in the first chapter of _The Beekeeper's Apprentice_.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Two**

_As soon as I could, I left the room. That girl's presence had certainly startled me; I had not expected anyone to be in my rooms. It was not only her being there that disconcerted me, it was also that she saw through my disguise with one glance! Not even Irene Adler could do such a thing. _

_Perhaps I am becoming overconfident with my abilities as an actor. _

_The girl was indeed an interesting subject. Her poor clothing disregarded, she came from an apparently wealthy background, which could be seen in her physical appearance - well nourished frame, healthy skin, no calluses on the hands - and in her speech and deportment. Her American accent was recent, perhaps two or three years, and speaks of northern California, I believe. She was obviously well educated and had a keen interest in ancient writing - Hebrew to be exact- which I deduced from the ink stains on her left hand. _

_While I exchanged my attire for something more suitable, I listened for noises in the adjoining room. A teacup rattled, that was all. From what I could tell, she was not a stray mignon of Moriarty, come to spy on my doings. No, this girl was here because she desperately needed help. People like her did not ask for my assistance unless they had the direst need. _

_From the look of that girl's thrice let-down and oft-mended dress, she was in trouble. She could not have been more than seventeen, yet she was wandering the streets of London alone. There was more to Miss Mary Russell than her appearances could tell me, I could feel it. _

_But how could I help someone who made me feel so...off-balance?_

_Watson was wrong. I did have a heart. The instrument had stirred. _

_This should be an interesting case.

* * *

_

He flew back into the room, now looking much the opposite of his appearance only moments before. A mouse brown dressing gown wrapped around him, he now closely resembled the man from the Strand's illustrations of the Sherlock Holmes stories. But even though they portrayed a man of nearly forty, this Sherlock Holmes could only have been thirty-  
five. Instead of a receding hairline, this man merely had a high forehead, topped with sleeked back dark hair.

Suddenly, my eye caught his and I realized that I'd been staring at him as though he were underneath a microscope. I bit my lip and looked down at my teacup. Now cold and tepid, the tea was undrinkable. I set it down quickly, trying not to meet that eyes I could feel resting upon me.

"Would you mind, Miss Russell," Mr. Holmes began, standing near the door. "If I asked Mrs. Hudson to bring up some dinner? I haven't eaten since breakfast, and from what I see, neither have you."

I nodded, somewhat impatient in wanting to tell him my problem. But perhaps a detective who has already eaten is a better one. And I was still slightly hungry myself.

He clapped his hands together. "Excellent. If you'll excuse me..." His form disappeared down the stairs, calling: "Mrs. Hudson!"

Finding myself alone in the room once again, I stood and moved towards the window, trying to ignore the desk drawer and what it contained. The rain was beginning to let up, and people were once more going about their business.

Somewhere in the house, a clock rang out the time. One...two...three. I wouldn't be able to stay much longer after Mr. Holmes' late luncheon (or very early supper). My aunt probably was looking all over for me, attempting to corner me in the sitting room to meet another insufferable young man she wanted for me to court. All they wanted from me was my money, and I knew that each of them was in my aunt's back pocket. Every penny I had would go to her in the end, and I would _never_ allow that to happen.

Footsteps leaping up the stairs (he must have skipped half of the steps, at least) warned me of Mr. Holmes' return. Collecting myself, I faced him as he entered the room.

"Mr. Holmes, if you wouldn't mind, I do have a favour to ask of you."

"Indeed, Miss Russell. That is precisely why you came. Ask away."

I sat down in the chair I had recently vacated as Mr. Holmes carefully moved his violin and sat in the facing chair. He leant forward, his grey eyes so intense that I could have sworn that they were looking into my very soul.

"It started five months ago after... when I returned to England," I began quietly. "My parents and brother were dead, and I felt completely alone. My closest living relative was my mother's elder sister, thus she was appointed my guardian. She had no home of her own, so she moved into my parent's summer house in Sussex with me. In her role of guardian, all she was supposed to do was ensure my safety and morality while I attended a women's college in Oxford. However, she has decided to control my future as well.

"First of all, she has reduced my monthly allowance to a measly sum that is half of what a scullery maid would earn in a week. She has also strictly forbidden me from attending school, claiming that it would ruin my mind and frighten away any 'suitors'." When Mr. Holmes raised an eyebrow at this, I quickly explained. "My aunt wishes for me to marry instead of attend school. The problem is, however, that I - I don't want to marry. Not now, not ever."

"She cannot force you into marriage, Miss Russell," Mr. Holmes pointed out. "That is against the laws of our country."

_How could I say this?_ I thought to myself. _How could I say that all she wants is my money?_

"Indeed, I know that, sir," I continued. "But it's the reason _why_ she wants me married that frightens me. You see, until I turn 21 or marry, my parent's money - my inheritance - is entirely in trust. Only the interest can be touched beforehand, and even then only small amounts can be withdrawn each month."

"You fear, Miss Russell, that your aunt will try and trick you into marrying before your majority so that all your money becomes your husband's?"

Wincing at the term _husband_, I nodded. "Mr. Holmes, my aunt is penniless, but she is very extravagant in her spending. And unfortunately, the money she receives each month for my care is spent on her wants, as you can see." I pointed to my dress, where the mended moth holes were all too obvious. "Once I turn 21, she will have no more income. If I marry, and she has my - my husband under her thumb, then she is financially safe.

"I do not doubt that she will go to any length to secure her future," I said. "She has always been jealous of my mother's good fortune in marrying my father, a wealthy American, and I am now the person she takes that jealousy out upon. All I want you to do is get her to leave me alone. You would not have to make her leave Sussex, but somehow stop her from controlling my life. She has no right to do so, especially because she does it only for her own gain."

Mr. Holmes leaned closer, his eyes capturing mine like a cobra ready to strike.

"There is something more, is there not?"

The blood flowed from my face. _How could he know?_ _Can he see my thoughts?_

"The scars on your right hand tell many stories, Miss Russell," he said softly. "How is it that you came to be in your aunt's care?"

The hand in question closed into a tight fist. I could feel my short nails digging into flesh.

"'The past is prologue'," he quoted. "If you wish for me to look into this matter for you, I must know the entire story, Miss Russell."

I looked down at my hand, my eyes tracing the labyrinth of scars that bespoke of the end of life for those I loved most. Without looking at Mr. Holmes, I told him the story or those scars.

"My father was a business man, originally from California. When he came to London, he met and married my mother, who was barely a step up from a Cockney Jew, the daughter of a rabbi. I was born here, as was my brother a few years later. But my father's companies in California began to have trouble, so he packed us off to San Francisco when I was fourteen.

"For two years, we lived happily on American soil, until my father received a letter. I have no idea who it was from or what it said, but the contents sent him into a frenzied state. Without warning, he had all our belongings packed and sent up to Vancouver. We were to follow the next day in a closed carriage. I realized that we were running from someone. It had to do with that letter, but I had no idea what."

The next part of the story pained me so much that I hated to think about it, much less tell it to someone I had only just met. Mr. Holmes mustn't know that it was my fault. It had nothing to do with my aunt.

"There is a section of coast, fifty miles north of San Francisco, where the road goes along a high cliff above the water. As our carriage rounded the corner, the horses shied and the harness broke loose..." My mother's cry as the carriage fell over the cliff resonated through my memory. This was not the first time I wished that I had not been thrown from the vehicle.

Fighting back tears of grief, guilt, and shame, I found it difficult to finish.

"The tide was high at the time and there were many rocks... They found the bodies of my family and the driver nearly a week later, washed up miles down shore..."

"Do you believe their deaths have anything to do with your aunt's greed?"

I shook my head. "I cannot believe that she would go to such lengths. Surely she would have killed myself off as well."

He sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "How long ago did all this happen?"

"The...accident was last August," I replied, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "And I returned to England in January, just after my birthday."

"What was it that kept you from returning sooner?"

Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to bring dinner. As she arranged the dishes on a small dining table in one corner, I stood up quickly to avoid answering his question. He observed my reluctance to answer, but wisely said nothing more about the matter.

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson. It looks as though you've cooked for an entire army," he commented with amusement. "Surely we don't look that famished."

She merely smiled, probably used to his quips, and made sure we began eating until she left, apparently satisfied.

It was a very enjoyable meal. Certainly I had not eaten so well in many months and Mr. Holmes tried to keep up with me for appearances sake. When Mrs. Hudson bustled in once we had finished, she couldn't help remarking on how much he had eaten.

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes. You must be feeling quite better now. Haven't had a proper meal in ages, he hasn't," she said, the last directed towards myself. "Doesn't eat enough for a cat to starve on. Wonder how he goes on like he does, I do."

"Enough, Mrs. Hudson," Mr. Holmes cut in. It seemed to me that it was an old argument for the two of them. "The meal was delicious, but I must complete my interview with Miss Russell. So if you don't mind..." He practically had to push her out the door. Once she was gone, he stood with his back to the door, reminding me of a lord shutting out the raging mob.

"One day," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "I will live quietly on the downs and raise bees. _Alone_."

To hide my smile, I turned to look out the window. In the time that I had told my story and that we had eaten dinner, the workday had completed and the street was now filled with people on their way home.

Speaking of home, I should have left for there already. My aunt would be in a rage by now.

"Thank you very much for your kind hospitality and your time, Mr. Holmes. It seems that I must leave now before my aunt calls for Scotland Yard to find me."

I heard his footsteps behind me, then he stood beside me at the window, pipe in hand.

"How will you be getting back to Sussex? Victoria Station is a long distance on foot."

Thinking it over in my head, I blushed with embarrassment. I hadn't even thought of how I was to get _back_ to the station. The rest of my money I had spent on the Underground to get here.

He noticed my hesitation. "Allow me to order a cab for you. A lady shouldn't be walking the streets alone. London is a breeding ground for criminals of all types."

"I really couldn't, Mr. Holmes," I stuttered, surprised by his philosophy more than his chivalrous attitude. "A hansom is far above my budget..."

He raised an eyebrow. "Then you must allow me to - "

"No!" I interrupted angrily. "I won't take charity."

He smiled mischievously, his grey eyes bright. "Would you prefer me to walk you over to the station then? Those shoes might prove a problem, however..." He let the sentence trail off, leaving me to lament about my too-small shoes. Damn the man! He was as sly as a fox.

Instruction

Seeing the incredulous look on my face, he burst out laughing. "I believe I know the answer to that, Miss Russell. Just a wait moment and I'll be with you." He hurried out of the room, still chuckling to himself.

With a frown, I gathered my now-empty reticule and stood by the door. Mr. Holmes reappeared soon after, wearing a black city suit. I followed him down the stairs and out the front door. Once he hailed a cab, he turned back to me.

"Have no fears about your case, Miss Russell. I will do everything in my power to help you."

I held out my hand and, thankfully, he shook it this time.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," I said. "When should I expect to hear from you again?"

He smiled enigmatically, which worried me slightly.

"I shall find you. But the problem is, will you know it's me?"

Before I could reply, he handed me into the cab and handed the driver a full shilling.

"Make sure the lady arrives safely," he instructed, then stepped away as the driver urged the horse on.

I tried to turn and look back at him, but when I did, he was gone.

* * *

_A/N: thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far! I never expected this to get so many so quickly. If you have any questions or comments, please tell me, either in a review or in an e-mail. I'm open to suggestions. :-) One more thing, I've decided to leave the title as it is (it's grown on me) and possibly make this the beginning of a short series. I don't intend to mirror the original series too closely, but some aspects will be similar, for the sake of trying to keep to kanon. _


	3. A New Problem

Disclaimer: all characters belong to Laurie R. King, as does the idea that this story spawned from.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

_Later that evening, Mrs. Hudson entered my rooms, finding me sitting on the floor amidst the piles of newspapers I had collected over the past six months. She was adamant in trying to get me to tidy up, but I resisted and distracted her by asking what she thought of Miss Russell. The woman then went into a long rant about the young lady's charm and intelligence. _

_It was difficult for me not to disagree with her on much of what she said, but finally I asked her for silence. "I'm looking for something that may assist Miss Russell's case," I explained with more patience than I felt. Nearly pushing her out the door, I once more had my silence._

_Near the bottom of the pile of newspapers, I discovered a _New York Herald_ from the previous August. The headline was one I now remembered reading with great interest, but had forgotten in the monotony of tedious cases since that time. _

**_Financier and Family Dead in Carriage Accident_**

_That was all it said. Yet it had drawn my immediate attention. Rising, I took the paper to a chair closer to a lamp, as the sun had sunk below the horizon. The minuscule print and the lack of proper lighting did not keep me from pursuing the story. _

_I summarize what was written here: A carriage carrying a family of four and the driver was hit by a fast-moving carriage coming from the other direction along a cliff-top road. The horses from the first carriage shied and broke loose, allowing it to roll over the cliff. The other carriage had continued on at its mad pace, even while the only survivor, a teenage girl, lay on the road watching it disappear. This second carriage was never found and the girl was sent to hospital for intense psychiatric care. _

_It was no small wonder that Miss Russell wished not to speak of the incident, I thought to myself as I re-read the story with a slight frown. She watched her own family be murdered under her own nose and yet no one believed her story. The fact that the police did not follow up the second carriage very well was enough for me to see that. _

_Who would believe a young girl just in a terrifying accident in which her close family was lost? Not only was Miss Russell a female, but she had needed "intense" therapy to cure her rattled emotions and mind. _

_Few people of sane mind would bother with such a case. But this one captured my interest. First thing in the morning, I would make some enquiries into the Russell fortune and into the greedy aunt. This case should, as the Americans say, "keep me busy" for the time being. _

* * *

Without much trouble at all, I arrived back in Sussex and walked from the station to my house. The lights were blazing as I topped the rise and there was a large carriage led by matching greys parked near the front door. 

_How odd_, I asked myself. _Who would come here at such a late hour_?

Wincing as my foot landed on a particularly sharp stone, I left the road and took a small cow path (fortunately clean of pats) that led behind the house. From there I could easily be able to spy upon whoever had come while he or she sat with my aunt (who of course would be entertaining them with stories of her "terribly wild niece") in the back parlour.

As I approached the house, I slowed my steps and lurked near the large parlour window which looked out over the Channel. Fortunately for me, it was surrounded by large deciduous shrubs - perfect for hiding in.

Not caring about the state of my dress (which was already ruined from the earlier rain and the conditions of the country roads), I knelt in the dirt and brought my head as close to the window as I dared. A few words leaked through the glass, but nothing distinguishable. So instead of listening, I decided to observe.

The room, decorated in gaudy shades of green and pink with furniture that a church jumble sale wouldn't touch, was occupied by three women. One was my aunt, noticeable chiefly because of her dyed blonde hair, naturally muddy brown. The other two were entire strangers to me, but not without interest. The elder of the two women was dressed all in black - obviously a widow - with her grey-streaked hair pinned up in a tight bun. Although she could not have been older than her mid-forties, deep wrinkles lined her eyes and mouth. The widow's watery-blue eyes were blank, as though she were surprised at something.

Beside her sat a woman only a few years older than I. From the similarities between her and the older woman, I supposed them to be mother and daughter. She was dressed in a lavender gown which brought out the strange violet-blue colour of her intense eyes. Her hair shone like spun gold in the lamp light and was arranged in a popular style - her whole persona was that of elegance and fashion. This woman was, in fact, everything that I was not: the sort of "perfect" lady my aunt was always nagging me to be. It was this woman who was carrying on most of the conversation with my aunt while her mother (at least, I believed the older woman to be her mother) sat quietly, seemingly in a daze.

Immediately, I found myself disliking this younger woman, but I could not explain exactly why I did so. It was not that she seemed unintelligent, like most young women around my age; her face revealed great cleverness while the slight squint of her eyes betrayed the hobby of reading by candlelight. There was something about the way she dominated the conversation and seemed to captivate my aunt's attention that made me suspicious.

Bringing myself closer to the window, I noticed the strangest thing about this woman: she had a scar across the left side of her face, starting at her temple and across her eye to the corner of her mouth. I had not seen it at first because of the way she was sitting with that side of her face in shadow, but when she had turned her head a fraction to say something to her mother, the shiny texture of the scar tissue flashed momentarily in the light.

How on earth did a fashionable young woman get a scar like that? I asked myself. The scars on my own body were hidden from sight, but this woman's scar was open for all to see. The strangest part was that she didn't even seem to care whether or not people saw it. An aura of confidence surrounded her like a blanket, protecting her from the harsh words of others.

After a quarter hour of watching, I gave into my curiosity and decided to go inside. My aunt would be angry, to be sure, but what possibly could she do to me before guests? Carefully, I stood and kept below the window so that those inside would not have seen me spying on them. At the back door, I tried the brush off the grass and dirt from by dress, but it was entirely hopeless. The dress was ruined; at best, it could be used for scrap cloth.

Quietly as I could, I opened the door, but my aunt with her predator-like hearing appeared in the parlour door.

"Where have you been, Mary?" she asked, her voice giving away her anger. "I've been worried sick for your well-being, my dear."

_Worried? For my money perhaps more than for me_, I thought to myself.

"What happened to your dress?" she continued when I did not immediately reply. "It looks as though you walked across an open field."

Ha! There was a perfect excuse. Perhaps my aunt was not as useless as I had previously thought her. It would still, however, take quite a poker face to lie so blatantly to her.

"I was - um- visiting Tillie in the next town," I said. "She's Patrick's friend, remember? Her sister is visiting with her new baby, so I'd thought that I would go and see it."

A strange look of deep thought (a rare moment, I will tell you) passed across my aunt's face. It seemed as though she actually believed my atrociously shallow lie.

"It began raining on the way there, as you know," I continued hurriedly. "And when I arrived, Tillie was all for me staying the night, but I knew that you would probably be worried about me, so I insisted in returning. Unfortunately, however, upon travelling home, I found the road to be pitted with holes filled with water, so I decided to walk along the path closer to the cliffs." Motioning to the hem of my ruined dress, I sighed wistfully. "As you see, that decision was no better than the rest."

My aunt sniffed. "Well, I hope you learned your lesson, young lady." She nodded towards the back stair near the kitchen door, usually reserved for servants. "Go change your dress and come back down straight away. There are guests who would like to meet you. Now stop goggling and hurry up."

Just before I turned to leave, she grabbed my arm, her fingernails digging into my flesh.

"Don't ever do that again, Miss Know-it-All," she hissed. "If you want to get out of this house with your pretty face intact, you'll act proper until you marry."

My face of mask of innocence to hide the anger beneath, I froze, seemingly in terror. She let go of my arm as though it were a piece of rubbish she'd rather throw back into the gutter. I hurried up the stairs, my hand in a fist that itched to make contact with her face.

Standing in my tiny room a few moments later, I looked through my wardrobe, hoping to find something at least half-decent, but I knew that it was impossible. Nothing there was newer than four months old and I had grown three inches since that time, which made them all frightfully indecent to wear. The dress I had worn today had been the best I had and now it was ruined. I had no choice now but to appear to my aunt's guests as a poor relation.

_How ironic was that?_ I thought to myself, nearly laughing. It was not I who was the poor one, somewhere in one of the banks was over a million pounds and twice that amount in American dollars. I felt rather like a character from one of those penny dreadfuls.

Changing into an old muslin dress that showed my ankles, I smiled to myself. Upon arriving in the parlour, I felt ready for whatever the three harridans there would set at me.

Too bad I was entirely wrong. Once again, my aunt found the upper hand over me.

"Mary, there you are," she said from a tapestried settee on the other side of the room. "Allow me to present to you Mrs. Donleavy and her daughter Patricia. They've just arrived in Eastbourne from New York and thought to make friends with us. Isn't that brilliantly nice of them?"

_A/N: now that's a cliffie, if I may say so. Sorry about the really really slow updates, this story was sort of dead in my mind. But thanks to Unseen Watcher, who seemed rather scared to death that I had discontinued the story, it has been updated. Thanks again for all the great reviews!_


	4. Mindless Depths

**Chapter Four**

The sun rose the next morning insufferably bright and cheerful, shining into my eyes where I had forgotten to shut the curtain the night before. Groaning, I reached for my glasses and stared at the clock on the wall. In the midst of attempting to ascertain what time it was, I heard the thump of the back door closing where the cook was collecting the fresh bottles of milk set there by the delivery boy.

My aunt would not be awake yet, most fortunately. By the time she usually rose, the sun was already high in the sky and luncheon was being served. Her newfound wealth had made her extremely lazy these past months, which actually made mornings the nicest time of the day.

Dragging myself from my narrow bed in the attic room, I chose some comfortable clothes from the closet and prepared myself for a day to be spent in the great outdoors. On the way out, my only stop was to grab a fresh pastry while the cook's back was turned. Sometimes, I wondered if she turned her back on purpose whenever I walked through her realm.

A long morning spent upon the green fields of the Downs mellowed my stormy emotions. I was ercked by the presence of the Donleavys last night. It was not that I disliked them, in fact, they were very personable people, but something about their arrival bothered me. The difficulty was that I could not pin point why I felt that way. Patricia in particular had paid me a lot of attention. She asked me about my schooling, my family, and things I showed interest in, namely theology.

Perhaps what I found troubling was that she had told me little of herself, while I had told her nearly everything, except tha accident, of course. Of that no one knew what really happened except for me. Not only was the incident too difficult to speak of, but the horrors of it still haunted me and masking the bitter truth was for my own protection and well-being.

My walk had led me to the cliff's edge, where I could see the waters of the channel spreading for miles and miles. They reminded me of the Pacific Ocean, which was darker and stormier, but still conveyed that feeling of freedom and space. Two things that England had not yet offered to me.

How desperately I missed San Fransisco! At least there I could be myself and do as I had wished. The strict rules of English society held me back from schol, from independence, and from the life I had known. A life that Patricia Donleavy represented. As long as I lived under my aunt's control, such a life could never be mine.

But there was something else about Patricia that startled me. I had sat beside her on the sofa at her beckoning. It seemed only natural since we were nearly the same age. However, I noticed that she had moved closer to me the entire time we spoke, until her skirts were brushing against mine. By that point, I could feel my nerves tingling with nervousness, an emotion I rarely felt. Even after moving away from her to the furthest corner of the sofa, I was still uncomfortable with her presence. Her intense attention on my person disturbed me. It was not the same intensity that Mr. Holmes had in his eyes that day I had seen him; he was curious, Patricia seemed more vicious and prefatorial in her interest. What was it that she wanted?

It was this and other questions that I pondered upon while walking the Downs. Standing by the edge of the stark white cliffs, the wind in my face, I took a deep breath. Too much had occurred in my life since the deaths of my parents and brother. Never again could I be the carefree adolescent I had been in California. The past few months had greatly changed who I was. I only hoped that my situation could only go upwards from here.

I only hoped Mr. Holmes could find something, _anything_, that would help me get away from my aunt. There was a college for women in Cambridge that I could attend and in Oxford I would be able to attend lectures, but obtain no degree. Society was not yet open to the thoughts of women scholars, unfortunately. There were but two paths for an Englishwoman to travel: wife and mother, or governess and companion. There were women nurses and doctors, but that route was not for me. If I could just escape my aunt's heavy hand, I would be a happier person.

The ocean breeze blew stray hairs into my eyes as I looked out over the channel, lost in thought. What would Mr. Holmes find in London? It had been only a day since I had seen him and yet I was wishing that he had already come up with something. How foolish of me. He was a busy man and would not entirely occupy his time with the problems of an adolescent girl. No man, and no person for that matter, would do that.

But the look I had seen in Mr. Holmes' eyes as I left suddenly came back to me, and I knew that this man - this detective - would help me, no matter what the cost. I didn't know why I felt that way, I couldn't explain it at all. Why should he care about me? Why should anyone? Yet here I was, with two people who had taken an interest in my well being. Mr. Holmes I could understand, not only had I hired him, but I had also heard stories about his great mind and his compassion for others. However, Patricia Donleavy's interest in me I could not fathom. She had no real reason to ask me so many questions and worm her way into my life. Never before had I allowed anyone to do so, nor would I be starting now.

Droplets of rain startled me from my brown study, forcing me to look up at the sky. Dark, stormy clouds were floating past high above and the wind had picked up, causing the waves to splash up against the rocks.

_Just like the day They died..._

No! I would not think of that, I would not think of that day. I must not think of it.

_It was just like today..._

Indeed it had been. The clouds were the same, as was the cliff and the water below. The only difference was the place. There was not a road by the cliffs, nor as many rocks as there were on that road south of San Francisco. This place in Sussex was not the same as the place where They had died.

That would keep me from the madness that had nearly consumed me.

I had to show a brave face to the world. The face that my parents would have wanted me to show. The face of an American Heiress living in England. The face of the woman I would one day become. A person I did not relish becoming. Too much of my youth had vanished in a matter of seconds; the rest deteriorating in the months afterwards. Every morning when I looked in the mirror, I saw someone I no longer recognized. The Mary Russell of old had long disappeared.

When the rain began pouring down, I turned and headed back towards what had been my home for the past four months. The water poured down my cloth cap and onto my shoulders, but I did not care. The rest of the world was already leaning upon me, what did more weight matter?

* * *

_The entirety of the next day I spent scouring any banking institution I could think of which may have served Miss Russell's aunt. It was not until the ninth when I found exactly what I had been looking for. In the guise of an auditor, I was able to gain access to the records of one Ester Klein, sister to the late Judith Klein Russell. It is wondrous how simple it is to delve into the books of another, especially when the bank manager is one's cousin (a second cousin one removed, I believe. I shall have to ask Mycroft to be entirely sure). _

_After looking through the books, it was rather easy to see that the woman had an extraneous source of income, two of them actually. The only difficulty was in tracing where - or who - they were coming from. _

_Could it be that she had a pension from some sort of work? Nursing, perhaps? Or even an inheritance from a relative? A darker idea came to my mind, that of blackmail. From Miss Russell's description, the aunt was a shady character indeed. More like a character from a fairy tale than a real person. _

_I continued my pursuit of the elusive funds through a complex and delicate search through the accounts of many financial institutions and records offices throughout the City. It was a gruelling search, but far better on my health than any romp through Whitechapel or Dartmoor. Watson would be proud of my improving welfare; I had not touched my cocaine for months. _

_Finally, I found what I was looking for, deep in the records of an obscure bank. There had been no other sign of an account for one Ester Klein in no other bank but the first I had visited, which was popular amongst many well-to-do citizens of the Empire. Now, however, there was something that could very well complete this case and set Miss Mary Russell into the life she blatantly desired and deserved. _

_Finding myself thinking about the young heiress once again, I buried myself once more in the mysterious accounts of her aunt. The girl was an interesting one, but a girl nonetheless. Since Irene Adler had passed through my life, no other woman seemed to challenge me, distract my mind from its workings. Yet Miss Russell was proving to do this. Through her youth and anger I could see a fierce intelligence and a mind that could, if trained properly, rival if not exceed my own. But against her was society's view of her sex - women were supposed to be weak and obedience, and though I had known some who were all but, society always triumphed, forcing these strong females into exile and scandal. _

_Nothing could ever change the common thoughts of human beings, not time nor desperation. As an observer of the human race, I could see all this._

_Suddenly, as my thoughts were running off in directions I would rather they not, my eyes caught something in the bank record I held. Various deposits from an institution in New York had been made since year had begun, each of the same amount, and appearing at equal intervals - always on the 15th of every month. There was no information as to the source of this money, but a telegram to some acquaintances I had in New York would perhaps yield some assistance as to the sender's identity. _

_Before I could allow myself to delve into the challenge this identity would give me, I sat back and wondered how on earth someone from New York could be sending Miss Russell's money to her aunt in England. From what I knew of the Russell fortune, all of the monetary inheritance was being held in London, in trust until the occasion of Miss Russell's twenty-first birthday. There could be no possible way that the money would first travel to New York from London, then back again. I would not put it past Ester Klein to do such a clever act; from what Miss Russell had told me of her aunt, Miss Klein was greedy, but not extraordinarily intelligent. _

_That left only one answer: that this second source had nothing to do with my present investigation. It was money coming from someone else, and not Miss Russell. _

_For the moment, I would leave this thread of the case undisturbed unless something else came up that would lead me once again to it. There was likely a perfectly acceptable answer for this second source. It was probably unimportant. What I needed to know - what Miss Russell needed to know - was whether or not her aunt was stealing from her. _

_That is what I would have to discover and prove. _

_After thanking the clerk for his assistance, I strode off into the thick fog that had laid over the City that morning and had not let up, even with the middle of the day. The street was crowded with carriages, carts, and people of all sorts. I watched them absently, noticing how the young street Arab across the street was carefully picking the pockets of a gentleman who should have been more watchful, and how a fast moving carriage nearly drove over a young woman, who was barely saved by the quick action of her companion. But I saw them without seeing, for my mind was elsewhere. _

_I went back to my lodgings on Baker Street, needing some time to think and read the material on the Russell family that I had asked Mycroft to obtain for me. It was a rather thick pile of papers including telegraphs from America, scribbled notes copied from government records, and __a meticulously written will and testament - most likely copied from an original by an overly self-conscious clerk in Mycroft's offices. _

_There was nothing really of interest in the will, which left the companies, houses, and the bulk of the money to the Russell children - Mary and Levi (her brother, I supposed) - and with small amounts left to servants and friends of the family. None of the names meant anything to me, but for future reference, I wrote them down on the back of an old telegram. _

_However, there were a number of other articles in the folder that proved to be of much more interest to me. In particular was a listing of withdrawals from the Russell account over the past five years, suddenly discontinuing the month before the "accident" which killed three-quarters of the family. _

_It was too damned convenient, the carriage accident. _

_I wondered if Miss Russell had ever thought so. Or did she blame herself for the accident because she was the only one left? Or could it be that I was assisting a murderess?_

_It would not be the first time, if the latter were true. But something in the girl's eyes and in the way she spoke wanted me to think otherwise. Anyway, it would be impossible for a young lady of seventeen to have blackmailed her own father - especially when that blackmail began when she was twelve. Unless, of course, the withdrawals had a completely reasonable explanation for their existence. That was very possible, yet my untrusting mind continued to haggle my conscience, not allowing the data to slip away from the attic of my knowledge. _

_Why did it seem that every way I approached this case turned up a new and startling piece of information that would not allow itself to be explained away? The original case that Miss Russell had presented me with was simple: to prove that her aunt was embezzling money from the girl's inheritance_. _However, there seemed to be a strange depth to this case; evidence of something more than just the aunt's dishonesty. _

_Leaning back in my chair, I lit my pipe. This was certainly a three pipe problem._

_

* * *

**Author's Note:** _Once again, apologies for the terribly slow updates, but this story has been giving me a bit of trouble, especially after "Locked Rooms" came out. A few changes were made to the plot that will hopefully make this a far more interesting and suspenceful story than I originally had planned. Many thanks to all my reviewers - you're all wonderfully inspiring and it's you whom I write this for.


	5. The Road to Eastbourne

_Author's Note_: Yay! I updated! Sorry for the wait once again. This time it was school that got in the way, not my procrastination. ;-) I hope you enjoy this chapter; finally the good part begins.**

* * *

**

**Chapter Five**

After a few days, I was beginning to get worried that Mr. Holmes had forgotten about me and my request. Perhaps he had been given a case of extreme importance by some foreign royalty or by some government official, forcing him to put aside all else he was pursuing. I only wished that he would hurry up and bring some news, or at least send a cryptic telegram. That would be far better than waiting in ignorance.

My aunt had changed drastically since the Donleavys had come to call. She had suddenly taken me to the dressmaker's for a fitting telling me only that I could not look like a servant or poor relation, not in front of guests. She had be dressed in terrible flounces and petticoats, lace and corsets. Instead of feeling happy about the new clothes, I was quite miserable since they were not at all comfortable to wear and made me look like an Eastend tart (not that I knew what they looked like, having never been to the Eastend of London). Fortunately, however, she also purchased for me some woolen scarves and warm gloves for my walks upon the Downs (as all my current ones were mostly moth eaten). It had been a surprise at the time, but her logic was that I would not be able to catch a chill since she knew I would go walking even if she forbid me to.

Something in my mind warned me that this was a case of bribery with the target as myself. Either that or she was desperate (for some strange, unknown reason) to make both herself and me presentable to the Donleavys. It was a pleasant difference, since she had not dared hit or insult me, fearing that I may suddenly tell Patricia (who, according to my aunt, was my new friend).

The Donleavy often came to tea or dinner, even more often staying late. I could not understand why they would show such an interest in us, but I felt that it was for some reason I would not care to know. Patricia continued to speak only to me while her mother "listened" (for I had suspicions that she was at least half-deaf) to my aunt's endless gossip and meaningless praise. The evenings that they spent at my house were increasingly boring. I would have preferred to be reading.

When I thought about it, however, I wondered why it was that the Donleavys always came to my home instead of inviting my aunt and I to their lodgings. Not that either my aunt nor myself ever actually knew where exactly the Donleavys resided. For all I knew, they could have lived in a fisherman's shack along the coast.

So after much deliberation and planning, I acted as though I had a painful headache just before they were due to leave. It only took me a few moments to change into men's clothing and climb down the wire I'd affixed to the chimney that was conveniently beside my bedroom window. Once on the ground, I waited behind a hedge for the Donleavys to leave the house. I could hear Patricia telling my aunt to "give Mary my love" and that she hoped I would feel better in the morning. Then the door opened and Patricia appeared, patiently leading her mother down the steps and to the carriage (which happened to be mine, but my aunt allowed the Donleavys to make use of it). As the door to the carriage closed behind them and the driver told the horses to move, I hurried forward and began my pursuit.

The night was cool, but not frigid, and there was a heaviness to the air that told of rain in the foreseeable future, perhaps in the next few hours. The carriage fortunately did not move too quickly over the rough gravel road, most likely because of the pot holes, so I was able to keep up fairly well. The clouds that shaded the moon's light gave me enough cover, as did the stone walls which lined this part of the road. Keeping to the stone wall, I kept about one hundred feet away from the carriage, as I did not trust that Patricia would not be watching for followers. She appeared to be a consummate actress, if her actions towards myself and my aunt were to be taken as such. She seemed too willing to be friends with people she had just barely met. Then there was also the difficulty with her initial arrival at my house.

No, I did not trust her one bit. There had to be a reason for all this and I would find out what it was.

I followed the sound of the horses shoes clomping along; the occupants of the carriage were entirely silent, which was hardly surprising. I seriously doubted that mother and daughter ever spoke much to one another. Their relationship did not seem close nor loving. There had been times when I'd actually wondered whether or not they were related at all. For some reason, there seemed to be a discrepancy in their appearance and actions. Of course, Patricia could have taken on more of her father's aspects than her mothers, but the differences between them were too great in my opinion.

The carriage continued on its way towards Eastbourne. It would make sense that the Donleavys would reside there in a hotel or rooms of some sort. Although it was not a place like London, it still had all the amenities that one would require as well as a certain amount of anonymity that one could not find in the village nearer to my farm.

However, just before the carriage came to the outskirts of Eastbourne, I saw a figure lean out of the window and tell the driver to stop. The driver protested that they were still a distance from the town, but still the door of the carriage opened allowing Patricia and her mother to step out onto the road. Patricia pulled a shilling from her purse and handed it to the driver.

"Don't tell anyone where you've left us," she said curtly, her voice carrying in the growing wind. "Our business is a private matter and not of any importance to you or your mistress. Now please leave us."

At the last moment, I jumped behind a hedge on the side of the road (luckily the stone walls had ceased a mile back) just before the driver turned the carriage, swearing under his breath the entire time. Once he had disappeared over the next hill, I scrambled out to follow the Donleavys, who were not walking very fast because of Mrs. Donleavy's ill health. At least, that is what I believed it to be. The number of petticoats she wore covered any sign of her legs and feet, while she usually kept a veil over her face. For a fanciful moment, I actually wondered if she were a woman at all. It was possible that she could be a man in disguise. But of course I rejected that idea immediately after thinking it. All the number of times she had spoken to my aunt, not once had Mrs. Donleavy's voice sounded anything but female.

They began walking down a path along side the road which soon turned closer to a wooded area. Once within the trees, I knew it would be easier for me to find cover. However, I also knew that the trees and whatever else was in there could also give the Donleavys a chance to escape me. That is, if they knew I was following them in the first place. They certainly did not act as if they thought so.

Lost in my thoughts for a moment, I did not see the stone until my foot collided with it. While I bit my tongue to cover a cry of pain, I was sure I saw Patricia glance back, but when I blinked, she and her mother were walking along, seemingly oblivious to my presence. I continued my pursuit, limping along in the cover of darkness, sometimes leaning on a tree for support. After a few minutes, the path split in two. One path followed a treeless ridge while the other continued along through the brush and trees. Watching the Donleavys take the upper path, I remained below, hoping that the two paths would merge once again. I could hear them above walking silently, the only sound other than their footsteps being Mrs. Donleavy's short and heavy breaths.

As the ridge the upper path was on began to lower in height back towards the lower path, I stopped, waiting behind a shrub for the two of them to appear. I thought I had still heard them above only a moment before, yet no one came down the path. It was as though they had disappeared. After five minutes of waiting, I deftly crept up the ridge, thinking that perhaps they had stopped for a moment to rest. In the far distance I could hear the waves rumbling against the cliffs. The wind was rising and the air felt heavy with a coming rainstorm. No animals were seen or heard anywhere around; the only sound was that of my footsteps crunching on the rotting leaves that made up the ground beneath the trees.

In a sudden flashing moment, I heard movement behind me. Rising from my hiding place, I turned to see a black figure rushing towards me, something large in their raised hand. Then I felt the pain, a sharp crack on the side of my skull. I collapsed to the ground, darkness surrounding my fall.

* * *

_Once I had made all the arrangements I needed, it was not long until I was on the train to Eastbourne, nearly one week after Miss Russell had first come to me with her request. The fact that she lived with the person she was investigating made it impossible for me to contact her. The telegram office in the village would hold no secrets for anyone and I doubted that Miss Russell would be able to understand any code I used if I did send a telegram. This was not because she was a female, but rather because I had not met her more than once and she would most likely not know my style. Even if she had read Watson's drivel, she could hardly be expected to interpret my telegrams. _

_The compartment was empty except for myself, which was a nice change from the usual busy London trains, crowded with people. Even though I would not have any interesting specimens of the human species to practice my skills upon, at least it would be quiet. The morning edition of the Times layed on the seat beside me, yet I did not pick it up. Watson would indeed be wondering about my health, or perhaps my sanity, if he saw me ignoring the newspaper, which I had not yet read that day. Then again, Watson often questioned my actions. _

_The case of Miss Russell's aunt had been profoundly simple. It was merely a matter of misplaced funds that were not deeply hidden. Either the aunt or whoever had assisted her had not thought that Miss Russell would bother investigating the matter. The funds from the mysterious account in New York had still not been traced, but I set that aside for the moment. My sources in New York had come up with nothing on the account nor the person who owned it. It could very well be that the account is perfectly innocent with nothing to do with Miss Russell. Of course assumptions can be dangerous, but I had done as Miss Russell asked me to. To do anymore could appear to show too much interest in Miss Russell. After the affair or Madame Norton, I would not venture to allow myself to show interest in any woman. _

_After some moments, the train began to slow as it approached Eastbourne. From the station, I had planned to take a carriage to the village Miss Russell had mentioned she lived near, after which I would call upon the young lady and her aunt, making my case. With the evidence I had, the aunt would not be able to make any logical argument whatsoever. It would be then that Miss Russell would take over and propose a treatise, if indeed that was what she devised to do. From what she had related to me during our first meeting, she did not plan on pressing charges against her aunt. Somehow, it would not surprise me if Miss Russell used blackmail to attain her goal, primarily to attend university the coming autumn. _

_Once in Eastbourne, it did not take long to find a carriage that could take me to Miss Russell's village. The roads were in deplorable condition, most likely because of the heavy spring rains that had plagued the area. Certainly it had rained recently, perhaps the night before. All the potholes were filled with water and the mud along the side of the road made me think twice about asking the driver to let me out at this location. Further along the road, I saw a man walking, or rather hiking, through the thick mud alongside the stone wall that lined the road. He appeared to be drunk from the way that he swaggered and held his head as he walked. As the carriage passed this man, he looked up and I saw wire rim glasses surrounding a pair of slightly unfocussed blue eyes. Immediately I recognized those eyes, though I cannot say exactly how. Perhaps it was in the way that they met mine and a sign of recognition and surprised passed over the figure's face, which was far too soft and feminine to be the face of a man. _

_Leaning my head out the window, I commanded the driver to stop. Then I opened the door and lent an arm to the person who entered. _

"_Well, Miss Russell, this is indeed a strange meeting place."_

_Her only reply was to fall into the seat across from me and groan as the carriage began to continue its journey towards the village. She took off the woolen cap she wore and her hair tumbled down over her shoulders, then she reached up to rub the back of her head. _

"_Can you explain your presence so far from your home?" I asked. _

_She managed a small smile. "Surely you can tell me what I was doing?" _

_Returning her smile, I reclined in my seat and tented my fingers, remembering the details I had noted of Miss Russell's appearance in the last few minutes. _

"_You left your home last evening before the rain began because you would have worn a heavier coat if you had expected to spend time out of doors during the storm. You walked the entire way, perhaps following someone across country?" _

_For a moment, she seemed surprised at this statement, then she frowned. "How would you have known about the following part? Why couldn't I have simply taken a walk through the Downs?"_

"_Would you have kept to the roads had you been walking for pleasure?" I replied. "The state of your boots reveals that you have walking along this road and perhaps others like it for a period of time. No other type of dirt is visible. Why else would you follow the road if you were not following someone? Also, I cannot think of any other reason why anyone would be walking alone at night when there's a danger of a heavy rainstorm."_

_Her lips were pursed and she absently fiddled with a stray strand of hair. After a short moment, she nodded. "Alright, you're correct about that. But I'm afraid that you went beyond simple deduction in order to reach that answer. If I were a perfect stranger, would you have come to the same conclusion? Most people are not as suspicious of others as I am."_

_These words had been calmly stated as though she had experienced similar arguments and discussions in the past. She did not speak like the majority of women, who were too often overly-sentimental or exaggerated. Miss Russell's speech was very matter-of-fact, more like my own that I would ever admit. _

_The carriage suddenly hit a rather large bump in the road and jumped wildly. Miss Russell cringed and held her head, an expression of deep pain crossing her face. Her lips moved but no sound was emitted. Perhaps it was the silent exclamation of an oath. The moment passed, however, and she relaxed, but only slightly. _

"_I presume that whomever you were following discovered that they were being followed?" I enquired. "Such a pain in the head can hardly be obtained by simply walking."_

_Her eyes met mine and I could see the fury within them. "I do not need to be reminded of my mistake, Mr. Holmes. Especially in such a manner that some would call rude. Yes, I was hit over the head. By whom, I have no idea. It may not have even been the person I was following. All I know is that it hurts like hell and if you think you can sit there critiquing me like I was a stupid child you can..."_

"_I don't think it's necessary for you to continue," I interrupted, not wishing to hear the explicative she had in mind for my future actions. Obviously she learned such lamentable language in America. No where else in the world did people speak in such a way. "I fully understand your meaning, and I apologize for my rudeness, especially towards a lady such as yourself."_

_She began to open her mouth to argue, as I knew she would, but I cut her off once more. "There are more important matters at hand, Miss Russell. For one, I have discovered what you aunt has been doing with your inheritance, which is the reason I have come to Sussex."_

_Her jaw dropped and I could detect a sudden brightness in her eyes. "You mean you've found her out? Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!" She leaned back into the carriage seat, the pain in her head momentarily forgotten. "I'm very grateful to you, sir. It was very kind of you to come in person."_

_What a tremendous change it was, from the rages of temper to the ecstasy of happiness. Her mood had turned around faster than any London pickpocket can steal a watch. Perhaps she was not as unfeminine as I had lead myself to believe for those few moments. Only a woman could change her mood so quickly and seamlessly. _

"_It was no trouble at all, Miss Russell," I replied cooly. "I merely did what you asked me to, nothing more."_

_She smiled, but I could tell that she was not attending me any longer. Most likely she was dreaming about the day she would be leaving for university, whichever one she chose to attend, and the day that her aunt would no longer make trouble in her life. The child-like dreaminess of her eyes made me envious of her, if only for a passing instant. Her life from what she had told me, had fallen apart within the last year, all she knew and loved vanishing before her very eyes. The poor child deserved some happiness, if only for a short time. _

_Another case appeared to be solved successfully. If only that had been the case. _


	6. Shadows in the Night

_Disclaimer: all characters are the creations of either Arthur Conan Doyle or Laurie R. King. Many details of the plot also belong to them._

* * *

**  
Chapter Six**

Once Mr. Holmes had left with my promise of a handsome sum from my solisiters, a complete role reversal occurred between myself and my aunt. She would allow be to attend university and I would allow her to stay in my home until my twenty-first birthday. She also received the insurance that I would not officially report her fraud. Blackmail could be a very useful tool at times.

For the remainder of spring and the majority of summer, I prepared for the university entrance exams. Since they required a more extensive knowledge that I could gain from simply reading, I enlisted the help of a retired schoolteacher living in the village. With her patient teachings, I gained entry to Cambridge, one of the few institutions offering degrees to women. Oxford would take female students, but would not give them a degree, which would not at all fit with my plans for the future.

September arrived near the end of a blisteringly hot summer. I was glad to be living in the countryside far away from the mass of humanity in London. How the people there handled the heat I could not discern. The smells of unwashed bodies and horse manure must have filled the streets, and the sun beating down on the cobblestones must have suffocated the wealthy ladies and gentlemen in their fine, but confining attire.

Before I was to leave for Cambridge, I took many long walks near the cliff side. The primary reason I didn't mind living in Sussex was the fact that it was on the sea. Even if the Channel wasn't the same expanse as the Pacific Ocean, seeing it reminded me of San Francisco. From our home there one could see the ocean and I rather became attached to it. Such an attachment was probably the reason why my father had agreed to keep the farm where my mother had spent so many joyful summers away from the city. He had loved the sea as much as I did. The water's connection to freedom and adventure was full of dreams and temptation. My own connection to the water had only been increased by my family's death. In my mind's eye, I could still see the waves below that wretched cliff licking at the debris from the accident. Never would I be able to banish that sight from my memory. Although the Sussex cliffside was worlds away from San Francisco, standing above the water still gave me that feeling of intense loss, but there was no danger of me leaping into the waves to join my family. I had long passed that stage of grief.

It would be a long time before I returned to Sussex since coming back for Christmas was not high on my list of priorities. The way that my aunt preferred to celebrate the season, with all the trimmings and traditions of a true English Christmas, only strengthened my resolve. If Mother could have seen the extent to which her only sister had deviated away from her inherited religion, I doubted she would not have blamed me for spending Christmas alone. Perhaps if I were desperate enough when the time came, I could venture down to London. Mrs. Hudson had kindly offered a meal and a place to stay if I ever decided to see more of the city. It seemed to be quite an agreeable idea, with a stroll through the British Museum and perhaps even see a play. Anything to distract myself from what would be my first true Christmas alone. I didn't count last Christmas, spent in the asylum, as a true holiday. Although I would never forget what she told me, I would gladly forget my reasons for being in that place of insanity.

For a few moments more, I watched the waves lap against the rocks below. In the distance I could just make out a fishing boat swaying with the motion of the gentle waves. The only other living beings in sight were the sheep methodically chewing grass over on the next hill. The peacefulness was too much for me. I turned away and walked back towards the house without a second glance at the water. Second glances are only meaningful in romances, the rest of the time they reveal a higher level of uncertainty. At this time, I was hardly uncertain. That would come later.

The next couple of months passed quickly, too quickly some would say. Most of my time was spent in the library, buried deep under piles of books, eagerly taking in all the knowledge at my disposal. Not that university was as simple as reading and writing papers, my tutors certainly demonstrated that being successful in my studies meant a lot more than that. They put before me numerous challenges, most of which I was able to overcome, but there were always those that were beyond my ability. Many times I wondered that, if my parents had not died, that I would be better able to deal with such challenges. Perhaps then I would have had support or a better education. As it was, however, the responsibility was upon me to find ways of managing my new situation and from what I had heard from fellow students, I was doing quite nicely at just that.

Yet there was still something else that bothered me. It was like a nettle in my brain, constantly there to remind me of its unwanted presence. As the nettle continued to poke about, I couldn't help but think that it had all been far too simple. The bank account so easily traced; my aunt so easily blackmailed into giving me independence of a sort; a problem that had practically solved itself. One part of me was pleased at a solution without fuss. The other, however, was restless, wondering about the answers to unasked questions. Mr. Holmes had mentioned only briefly that there was another source of money being transferred to my aunt's bank account. He had said quite firmly that it had nothing to do with me - that it was not of my concern - but I was not satisfied with that. What else was my aunt involved with that she would be receiving these funds? That would be something, it seemed, that I would have to discover myself.

There was also the mystery surrounding the Donleavys. I could not forget the nighttime stroll that had ended with me lying unconscious in a pile of rotting leaves. Had that incident been a mere accident? Perhaps Patricia took me for a thief or attacker - I had been dressed in male clothing. It could have also been that I had been led into a trap of sorts, but if I had, why only knock me unconscious, why not do more? Had I foiled a plan or had I unwittingly walked into one?

These questions and more festered within me throughout the term. By the time the Christmas holidays had come, I was itching to look further into the questions and perhaps find some answers to them. Mr. Holmes had been of help in quieting my aunt, but I was not sure if I could trust him for what I was planning to do. I had already made arrangements to go to London to spend at least Christmas dinner with Mrs. Hudson. It would not be difficult to leave for the City a few days earlier, thus having enough time to do some investigating of my own. It did not take me very long to find appropriate lodgings although it was rather out of sorts for an unaccompanied young lady to be on her own in London. The proper clothes were also acquired: a dress suitable for visiting my solicitors, another for Christmas dinner, and yet more for everyday use, predominately suited for walking long distances. The simplicity of the dresses would be enough to make me blend into the crowds, while their decent quality would keep away thoughts as to my work. They were the clothes of most governesses and nurses, certainly not of wealthy young heiresses, but they were serviceable, which was all I needed. I may not have cared about high fashion, but leaving others with a good opinion of one's self is rarely a bad thing.

Upon arriving in London and leaving my belongings at the tourist hotel, I took the omnibus to the offices of my solicitors, who had been my parents' solicitors before me. The office of the head partner was very masculine with its deep green walls and heavy panelling, but it didn't in the least intimidate me. My dress may have been two years out of date and a bit on the short side, but I sat in the client's chair, calmly resolute to my fate.

"What do you mean I have to stay with her for another three years?" I asked, perhaps with a little more force that I had planned.

The senior partner frowned. "I'm sorry, Miss Russell, but she is your only living relative in England and the law expressly states that you must remain with her until you reach your majority. It's unfortunate that you cannot come to terms with her way of life."

Reaching into my handbag, I retrieved the letter of recommendation Mr. Holmes had written just in case such a problem as this would arise. I handed it to the aging solicitor, who politely took it from me and began to read. Somehow he managed to keep his face emotionless as he was informed of the scheme my aunt had been involved in.

When finally he laid the letter on his desk, he said, "This is indeed a difficult situation, Miss Russell. Had you come to this office for help instead of consulting this detective – "

"I needed to be sure before I spoke with you, sir," I said in a rush. "Mr. Holmes is trusted by many in both the police and the government. I believed that his assistance would not only save time but also yield better results."

The solicitor sat back in his chair. "Now that you have dealt with the matter privately, what do you wish this firm to do?"

"I would like my aunt's use of _my_ money to be more closely monitored. Preferably, she should give an appropriate reason for each transaction she makes with that account. Although I doubt she will try anything else now that I am aware of her past actions, it is better to be safe than sorry, as the saying goes."

"That is easily done, Miss Russell."

Soon after I made arrangements with the solicitor for small amounts of money to be made available to myself when I was studying at the university. The money would be enough for clothing and loggings, which would be far better than the cold water flat and ill-fitting dresses that had been a part of my life for longer than I ever could have desired. Perhaps with this change in situation I could finally try to regain the life that had been lost with the death of my family.

By the time I left the office, the streetlamps had already been lit and an entirely different world was waking for the night. No hansom cab passed by as I walked up the street; most likely they were all in use by those wishing to attend the theatre. Holding my handbag tightly with one hand, I made my way back to my hotel, trying to put to rest the phantasy in my mind that the shadows in every alleyway moved at my approach and that there were footsteps following my own. Was I unwittingly walking into a dangerous trap? No, of course not. It was not as though I had any enemies other than my aunt, and I was sure that if she had wanted me dead, she would have done that long before now. Yet I could not help but look behind me at every sound or tense each time a person passed me by. I had never spent any time in any city after dark, so perhaps I could blame my anxiety at my inexperience with such situations.

When I finally heard the clip-clop of a horse and carriage making its way up the street, I turned towards it, hoping that it was unoccupied.

* * *

_The syringe sat on the table before me, its needle glittering in the light from the lamps. The small glass bottle rested beside it, the clear liquid within it beckoning to me like the worst of vices. At any other time, I would have held both in my hands, ready to find the stimulation my mind so needed, but that night, I could not touch either. A strange aversion to the liquid was present and would not allow itself to be banished. I stared out into the street, which was just beginning to fill with the populous of London, whether they be lawful or criminal. Street Arabs wound through the labyrinth of carriages and people, either picking pockets or hawking the early edition of the Times among other things. _

_A small number of cases had occupied my time over the past few months, most of which had solutions that anyone could have bothered to discover had they merely _observed_. There were, of course, those cases that did hold some interest for me, including one brought to me by Mycroft and the problem of the Surrey governess. It seemed as though, since my reappearance in London, that there were few, if any, crimes that were worth the trouble. With the absence of Moriarty, the criminal world had greatly deteriorated. _

_My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stair. Without moving from my position, I measured the heaviness and speed of the step so that, by the time the door opened, I knew exactly who would be standing there._

"_Welcome, Inspector. I presume Mrs. Hudson already offered you tea?_"

_As always, Lestrade was slightly disturbed by the fact I had not looked to see who had entered the room, but he was past the stage of asking where I had received my knowledge. _

"_Yes she did, Mr. Holmes, but there's no time for that. There is a problem that needs your assistance directly. The cab's waiting outside."_

_Wordlessly, I rose from the table and grabbed both overcoat and hat before hurrying down after Lestrade. Mrs Hudson stood in the foyer, holding my stick. _

"_You'll be back for tea, Mr. Holmes? We're expecting guests, remember."_

_Impatiently, I took the stick and waved her aside. "It all depends on the case, Mrs. Hudson. There's no need for you or your guests to wait if I do not appear at the required time."_

_She nodded, turning back to the kitchen as I followed Lestrade out into the street. _

_Once in the cab, Lestrage began to reveal to me the particulars of the case._

"_The body of a young woman was found by one of my men this morning. He saw what looked like a beggar, but when he went to wake the fellow up, he found that it wasn't a fellow at all. T'was a girl with yellow hair wearing an old dress, but it was rather good quality. That's what lead me to think she was a servant or had come from the orphanage." Lestrage paused for a moment, staring out into the street. "The worst was that she was so young. Couldn't have been more than eighteen, I say."_

"_Was there any evidence that she had been interfered with?" I asked._

_Lestrade flushed slightly. "No, there wasn't, Mr Holmes. No one wants another Ripper on the loose, especially Scotland Yard!"_

_I raised a hand to appease him. "It was only a question, Inspector. Never would I dare to encroach upon the honour of the police."_

_He looked at first as though he was uncertain about my comment, then continued in a rush. "Of course we searched her pockets looking for some form of identification. However, there was nothing except this, Mr. Holmes." He held to me a small slip of paper. "It's the reason I came to consult you so quickly after finding the body." _

_I carefully took the paper in a gloved hand, not wanting to interfere with any fingerprints that could have been upon it. There was nothing untoward about the paper, at least not at first glance. It could have been purchased at any stationary shop in London, probably anywhere in England, for that matter. No watermark could be seen, nor could anything that might distinguish it from other types of paper. Perhaps a chemical analysis of the properties of the paper would yield better results than mere observation. _

_The handwriting, however, was a different matter. The letters had a peculiar angle to them that bespoke of left-handedness while the writing was purely feminine in form. The instrument used to write the note had blotted twice, which had stained the writer's hand – the marks from the stain appeared numerous times on the page. This bespoke of haste, since the writer had not stopped to wipe the ink off her hand. The way that the letters were often misshapen, which assured me that indeed this note had been written in with great speed. The words themselves were of little interest; my name and address were all that was written upon the note. The only other piece of information I could discern from the note was that it had been written by an upper-class, well-educated young woman whose hand shook slightly when she wrote. _

_I handed the note back to Lestrade. "Do you believe it to have been written by the victim?"_

_The inspector shrugged. "Unless it's proven otherwise, I would say so, Mr. Holmes." _

"_Did you happen to notice a small ink stain on the girl's left hand, Inspector?"_

_Lestrade thought for a moment. "I can't be sure, Mr. Holmes. We're nearly there, so you'll be able to see for yourself."_

_A moment later, the cab stopped at a nondescript alleyway walled on each side by brick walls heavily stained with soot from the factories. A pile of rubbish lay on one side of the alley, probably unnoticed by the majority of people who passed it by. It would impossible to know how long it had been there. A bobby stood at the entrance to the alley and nodded grimly at Lestrade and I as we made our way to the pile, beside which knelt the police surgeon. _

"_Any findings, doctor?" Lestrade asked, taking from his pocket a notepad and pencil stub._

_The surgeon sniffed in disgust and picked up a delicate, but limp, hand. _

"_Strangled," he said without betraying any emotion. "The ligature marks are very clear. It was likely done with a scarf or something similar. There are no signs of rope markings or bruises from hands on her neck." He leant over the hand, closely examining the fingernails. "She was surprised from behind. She didn't have an opportunity to defend herself."_

_I asked again about the ink stain to be met with the affirmative. "There's a small black mark on her left hand. It certainly could be ink – I can't think of anything else that it would be."_

_The surgeon then rose and brushed off his trousers. "She can be taken to the morgue now. I'll do the post mortem this evening, though it would probably be a waste of time. The cause of death is clear." He made a signal to a waiting carriage, from which two men dressed in unrelieved black emerged, ready to carry the body away. _

_Something greatly bothered me about this. All the clues were too familiar to be brushed aside: the left-handedness, the blonde hair, the level of education and social status of the young woman. They were all leading to a place I would prefer not to have gone. _

"_May I see her face, doctor?" I asked. _

_The surgeon stood aside to let me pass with a nod while Lestrade took on an expression of intense curiosity. _

"_Do you believe that she is known to you, Mr. Holmes? That would certainly explain why she had your address with her."_

_Before I lifted the cloth that covered her face, I said, "It would also mean that we had never met. Surely someone who had previously consulted me would know my address. The placement of the note appears a little too obvious."_

"_In what way?"_

_Staring into the now-uncovered face, I beheld a pair of blue eyes, magnified by a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. Yellow hair surrounded the face like a pillow and the dress was similar in state to the ones I had previously seen the girl wearing. _

"_Because I know this young woman. She consulted me in April about a problem with her aunt," I paused for a moment, a strange guilt growing within me. Something had not seemed correct at the end of that case and now I realised that I had made a fatal mistake. _

"_Her name is Mary Russell," I told Lestrade, whose eyes opened wide in surprise. _

_I rose before he could speak. "It would be best if you could perform the post mortem, doctor. This is more than a simple strangling. Anything you can find would be appreciated." The surgeon nodded grimly and signalled to his assistants so that they could remove the body. _

_Turning to the bobby, I requested that he begin to question anyone in the vicinity who could have witnessed something untoward in the street the night before. This particular street was not residential, which would make it rather difficult to find witnesses at that time of the day, but every loose end had to be carefully measured before it could be tied_.

"_Inspector, Miss Russell resided in Sussex, so for her to have been in London most likely means that she would have needed loggings. Someone will need to discover where she had been staying and any luggage will have to be searched."_

"_Of course, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade replied. "But what of the note? It was written by the victim, you said so yourself."_

"_Perhaps her luggage will render the answer to that," I replied cooly. _

_As I began to walk away in what I deduced was the direction Miss Russell had come from, Lestrade asked, "And what will you be doing, Mr. Holmes?"_

_I stared up the street, which even now was not extraordinarily busy. "I will be deducing her path to this point. There should be evidence of her attacker on the way, if he or she was following Miss Russell for an extended period of time."_

"_And do you think it could have been a woman?"_

"_Until evidence tells me otherwise, it is indeed a possibility, Inspector."_

_Lestrade carefully placed the notebook and pencil back into the pockets of his overcoat. "Quite true, Mr. Holmes. The girl's height and build were small. It would not have been difficult to keep hold of her at the same time as squeeze the life out of her. Poor girl."_

_At his remark, my head flew up from its examination of the pavement. "What did you say? The girl was small?"_

_Looking confused, Lestrade replied, "Why yes. You mean you didn't notice, sir?"_

_It was a jibe, that was obvious enough, but I was not going to follow such a red herring at the time. Instead, I hurried over to the coroner's carriage. "Doctor! One last look at the body, if I may."_

_Leaping into the carriage, I stared down once more at the girl's body. The face was similar in shape and the colouring was correct, but the size of the body was horribly wrong. I could recall the awkward height of Miss Russell as she stumbled along the road from Eastborune and the success to which she wore male attire. While Miss Russell was nearly six feet in height, this girl could not have been more than five and a half. _

_If this girl was not Mary Russell, who was it? Furthermore, why had she been murdered and dressed up to look exactly like someone she was most definitely not?_

_

* * *

Author's Note:_

So there it was, finally an update for this story. I told you it'd be action-packed. P 

I'm not 100percent sure about some of the language and facts. For the post mortem, I read somewhere that in the Victorian age they were not deemed as necessary in all circumstances - I do not know if it applies also to 1894, the websites I looked up on the history of forensic science didn't say exactly.

Thanks very much to all that have (and will) review. It is much appreciated.


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